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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


J-V.'^s, 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.archive.org/details/figsfromcalifornOOIyma 


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Figs 
from  California 


^ 


Printed  by 

Lederer,  Street  6k  Zeus  Company 

Berkeley,  California 

1922 


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& 


COPYRIGHT    1922 
BY    W.   W,    LYMAN 


(olio 


PREFACE 


HIS    little    book    has    been 
made  up  of  poems  selected 
from    the   work    of   mem- 
bers  of   a    class   in   verse- 
■uriting  which  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  conducting  at 
the  University  of  California  in  the  Fall 
of  IQ2I .     I  have  considered  that  all  the 
poems  appearing  here  have  interest  and 
some    of    the7?i    distinction,   and   I    have 
thought    that    their    publication    would 
serve    both    to   give   a    characteristic   ex- 
ample   of   the   vivid   poetic    imagination 
discernible  among  the  young  people 
of  California,  and  also  to  afford, 
perhaps,  a  further  stimulus 
to  its  expression. 

W.  W.  Lyman. 


Berkeley,    California, 
May.   1922. 


576512 


MSRARf 


California  Autumn 

The  new  green  shore  where  we  camped  in  Spring 
Is  crisp  and  brown;  the  dry  stalks  fling 
Their  winged  seeds;  the  withered  weeds 
Around  our  blackened  fire-stones  cling. 

The  stream  where  we  watched  the  swallows  play 
Has  ceased  to  laugh — it  has  run  away 
And  left  a  pool  still  clear,  still  cool; 
A  lonely  blue  on  the  grav^el's  grey. 

The  willow  where  the  linnets  sing 
Is  now  the  only  unchanged  thing 
That  dares  the  death  in  Autumn's  breath, 
And  waits  again  another  Spring. 

Vernon  R.  King. 


[4] 


Autumn 

High  in  the  mist-chilled  air, 
Scudding,  the  wild  ducks  fly; 

Drawing  a  wav^ering  line 
Faint  on  the  autumn  sky. 

Gleaming,  the  far-off  lake 
Widens  before  their  flight — 

Suddenly  whirring  they  drop 
Into  the  dusk  of  night. 

G.  Votau  Mills. 


Summer 

♦J* 
O  Flower-of-the-corn, 
Why  do  you  hang 
Silken  tassels  that  stir 
In  the  golden  sun  ? 

You  know, 

When  the  sun  turns  southward. 
Your  brown  stalks  will  be  piled 
Under  the  harvest  moon. 

Harriet  McLear  Hall. 


[5] 


Autumn 

Autumn  is  a  wanton  maid, 
With  brown  shoulders  bare, 

And  flash  of  scarlet  barberries 
Tangled  in  her  hair. 

Gypsy-eyed  and  sandal-footed. 
Crimson-lipped  she  came, 

Kissed  the  summer-listless  earth 
Into  mounting  flame; 

Swept  in  mocking  courtesy  low 

Her  ragged  loveliness, 
Laughing,  fled,  and  left  the  earth 

To  gray-ashed  dreariness. 

Mario  71    Ye  at  man. 


''Dying  Summer* 

The  fallen  leaves  in  shining  sheaves 
Are  caught  with  ropes  of  gold; 
Upon  the  hill,  the  winds  grow  chill 
That  once  blew  warm  and  bold. 

A  flower  dies  'neath  turquoise  skies, 
Its  drifting  leaves  are  red; 
And  golden  bees  through  listless  trees 
Hum  "Summer  soon  is  dead." 

Mary  A.  PFeyse. 

[6] 


Foreboding 

The  white-fanged  waves  mouthe  hungrily 

And  mutter,  each  to  each, 
Weird,  garbled  tales  of  mystery 

On  the  shadow-blackened  beach. 

Passing  strange  are  the  tales  they  tell, 
Strange  are  the  sights  they've  seen, 

For  one  has  watched  a  drifting  spar 
With  sea-weed  cordage  green, 

And  one  has  found  dull  gold  half-hid 

In  sea-mud's  slimy  brown. 
And  one  has  seen  a  white  dead  face 

Full   forty  fathoms  down. 

Now  the  strangled  wind  no  longer  stirs 
Through  the  stark  driftwood  gray, 

And  silently  in  swift-winged  flight 
The  sea-birds  glide  away. 

The  peering  face  of  an  ominous  moon 
Strains  pale  through  a  stifling  cloud, 

While  the  wave  that  saw  the  dead  man's  face 
Is  talking  over  loud. 

Marion  Yiattnan. 


[7] 


The  Kelp-Gatherers 

The  fisher-folk  of  Finisterre, 

Of  simple  faith  and  calloused  hands, 
Go  sailing  out  from  wind-swept  sands 

In  seasons  slack  and  weather  fair, 
Along  the  Rade  before  the  breeze 

To  search  the  shores  of  La  Conquet- 
And  cheerful  bring  at  twilight  grey 

The  ribboned  kelp  from  out  the  seas. 

Upon  the  beach  in  evening  light 

Pass  to  and  fro  the  toiling  men — 
The  kelp-fire  on  the  shore  burns  bright. 

It  rises,  sinks,  then  dies  again; 
While  on  the  headland,  gaunt  and  bare, 

The  ancient  Celtic  dolmens  stand. 
And  see  below,  like  shifting  sand, 

The  fisher-folk  of  Finisterre. 

G.  Votaii  Mills. 


The  Desert 

A  giant  cactus  waves  its  grotesque  hand 

To  black  ravens 

That  over  a  putrid  carcass  croak. 

A  wagon-wheel  lies  half  buried 

In  drifting  sand. 

G.  Votau  Mills. 

[8] 


**El  Evangelistd* — The  Letter-Writer 

When  doves  in  the  belfry  chant  their  praise 
And  the  bells,  that  rust  tints  green, 
With  thumps  of  the  gong  against  quivering  steel 
Shake  on  the  roof  their  matin  phrase, 

You  come  to  the  arcade  encircling  the  square. 

The  plaza,  the  soul  of  the  Spanish  town; 

And  you  sit  on  a  chair  of  thongs  and  reeds 

At  a  table  the  sun  has  warped  through  the  years 

And  you  shine  the  pens  that  your  inks  embrown. 

An  Indian  shuffles  his  sandaled  feet 
And  squats  on  the  stool  at  your  side, 
To  murmur  a  note  to  his  wounded  son 
While  he  tenderly,  quietly  cries. 

A  girl  with  the  night  entrapped  in  her  hair, 
And  lips  that  ripple  with  the  rhythm  of  love, 
Like  a  butterfly  glides  and  stops  at  your  desk 
To  send  to  her  lover  in  far  Yucatan 
The  leaves  of  a  rose  with  the  scent  of  her  kiss, 
The  word  he  awaits,  and  her  prayer  for  their  bliss. 

You  look  in  their  eyes  and  you  see  through  that  lens 
The  embers  of  grief,  the  flames  of  delight 
Of  the  sons  of  the  Aztecs  who  live  in  a  world 
Of  thoughts  and  of  dreams  unchiseled  by  pens. 


[9] 


You  grow  old  as  you  read  from  the  faces  of  bronze 
The  story  of  man;  the  struggles,  the  sighs 
To  phrase  the  unphrased  that  floats  in  the  heart, 
To  utter  the  self  that  unexpressed  dies. 
"Oh,  for  a  pen  that  would  carve  out  my  thought!" 
Is  the  prayer  that  your  eyes  from  their  eyes  have 
caught. 

When  the  fleeting  swallow  lances  the  shades 
And  the  fireflies  flicker  like  golden  beads, 
You  have  locked  your  papers  and  pens  for  the  night 
And  you  muse  on  your  chair  of  thongs  and  reeds. 

Herbert  M.  Sein. 


"El  Sol'*  the  Pyramid 

You  sit  in  the  splendor  of  silence  now ; 
Your  children  are  hushed  and  gone. 
Out  of  the  earth  they  made  you  rise. 
Now  in  the  earth  their  empire  lies, 
And  you — you  are  left  alone. 

You  were  born  in  the  soul  of  the  Toltec  kings, 
When  their  drums  and  flutes  were  loud; 
And  men  were  cranes  to  hoist  your  stones 
And  blood  and  mortar  were  mixed  with  groans 
Till  you  grew  high  and  proud. 

[10] 


They  crowned  your  summit  a  shrine  to  the  Sun, 
And  in  crystalhne  porphyry  made 
His   image  to  serve  and  adore  through   the  years ; 
With  thousands  of  priests  and  millions  of  tears, 
To  exalt  the  grim  victor  of  shade. 

The  sacred  processions  would  fill  for  you 

The  altars  of  igneous  stone 

With  human  flesh  to  feed  the  flame, 

And  drums  to  thunder  and  laud  your  name; 

Yet  now — you  are  left  alone. 

When  dawn   drops  smoothly  a  veil  of  rose 
On  your  untempled  mossy  crest, 
And  the  breeze  shakes  down  the  drops  of  dew, 
I  think  they  are  tears  that  roll  from  you 
To  the  tombs  where  your  children  rest. 

In  the  dim-light  of  dawn  you  are  weary  and  lone; 

Your  soul  has  wept  in  its  sleep; 

You  miss  your  children,  the  feast  and  king; 

The  glories  of  empire  your  stones  would  sing.  .  .  . 

El  Sol!  you  are  great;  you  weep. 

Herbert  M.  Sein. 


[II] 


Siberia 

Siberia  is  a  land 
No  one  knows; 
Iron  the  frost, 
Endless  the  snows. 

Siberia  has  green  fields 
And  rainbow  plains, 
White  flowers  for  frost, 
And  silver  rains. 

White  birch   for  snow, 
Birds,  and  warm  sun — 
And  miles  of  daffodils 
Where  rivers  run. 

Siberia  is  a  land 
No  one  knows — 
There  flowers  live  again 
After  the  snows. 

Harriet  McLear  Hall. 


[12] 


To  Those  Who  Believe  in  Immortality 

World — shouting,    screaming,   crooning,    crying — 

You  are  a  great  jazz  orchestra. 

And  World,  I  have  a  ticket  to  your  show, 

For  I  have  Life. 

Sometimes  you  whine  and  crash  a  brassy  song  of  war. 

Sometimes  you  softly  cry  the  shrill,  sad  solo  of  a 

lonely  bird. 
Sometimes  you  croon  the  harmony  of  wind  and  sand 
Huddling  together  on  the  desert. 
World,  I  count  myself  in  luck 
To  have  a  ticket  to  your  show. 
But  World,  there  are  some  among  your  audience 
Who  tell  me  that  this  ticket.  Life,  is  good 
For  yet  another  show,  more  brilliant  still  than  yours. 
They  say  when  I  am  ushered  from  your  door 
That  I  will  flaunt  forth  through  infinity 
And  roam  across  the  silver-studded  sky; 
That  I  shall  live  as  long  as  time 
And  play  with  opal-fiery  stars 
And  ride  the  ether  on  a  comet's  back.  .  . 
But  World,  I'm  glad  these  Someones  do  not  know. 
They  only  spin  their  idle  yarns. 
For  if  I  knew  that  I  would  beat  for  aeons  with  the 

stars. 
Your  music,  World,  would  not  be  half  so  grand. 

Roberta  Hollowav. 


[13] 


One  Milestone 

To  believe  smugly,  till  my  eighteenth  year, 
That  right  was  right,  and  never  could  be  wrong, 
That  God  was  God,  and  sinning  was  a  sin. 
That  day  and  night  were  each  twelve  hours  long — 
This  was  I  taught,  and  lauded  for  believing: 
These  creeds  I  stole;  men  honored  me  for  thieving. 

One  friend  there  was  who  laughed  at  these  my  creeds, 
And  then  came  men  who  said  that  they  were  wrong. 
And  last  came  Life  itself  to  prove  to  me 
How  weak  were  all  my  idols  I  deemed  strong. 
This  year  I  learned  that  right  is  often  wrong, 
That  God  is  nothing  but  a  man-made  thing. 
That  day  is  short,  and  night  is  thrice  as  long. 
That  sin  means  not  to  protest,  but  to  cringe. 

Life  took  unto  himself  the  clean,  blank  page 
That  was  my  life,  and  wrote  these  things  for  me, 
And  they  who  taught  me  creeds  so  long  ago 
By  scorn  of  my  new  life,  trumpet  me  free. 

Ermine  B.  Wheeler. 


[14] 


Range-Free  ! 

Oh,  were  my  love  a  fragile  thing, 
too  delicate  to  bruise  or  bare; 

Too  tender  to  express  in  words, 

too  poignant-hued  a  flower  to  wear, 

I'd  crush  and  keep  it  pressed  away 
memorialing. 

But,  since  my  love  is  bold  and  bluff, 
exuberant,  assertive,  positive. 

Strong  enough  in  its  crude  youth 
to  crush,  of  course  I'll  let  it  live 

And  range  unbridled,  uncorralled, 
and  wild  and  rough. 

E.  H.  Rosenthal. 


The  Cask  of  Life 

I  dip  into  the  cask  of  life  each  day, 

and  drain  a  dipperful  each  time  I  dip. 

Sometimes  I  am  attentive  to  the  way 

I  drink.     Sometimes  I  let  the  dipper  slip. 

At  times  I'm  generous.     At  times  I  may 

not  share  the  drink.     Sometimes  I'm  sad  or  flip, 

or  view  the  cask  with  real  or  feigned  dismay, 

and  kiss  the  dipper  faintly  with  my  lip. 

E.  H.  Rosenthal. 

[15] 


Incense 

Across  an  azure  sky,  a  scarlet  bird  flits  by 

Like  the  fleeting  soul  of  a  flower. 

Within  a  golden  urn,  the  blackened  petals  burn 

And  the  ashes  fall  in  a  shower. 

Before  a  shrine  of  jade  and  pearl 
There  kneels  a  lovely  ivory  girl; 
Like  writhing  snakes  around  her  hair 
The  dim  grey  clouds  of  incense  curl. 

And  still  the  girl  is  there,  still  kneeling  low  in  prayer, 

And  the  incense  swirls  by  the  hour 

Across  the  azure  sky,  and  floating  slowly  by 

Drifts  the  soul  of  a  scarlet  flower. 

Mary  A.  Weyse. 

Jazz 

Dull,  insinuating  music 

With  your  languid,  minor  whine, 

Jarring  cymbals,  melancholy 

Discord,  like  a  heavy  wine 

Pouring  in  our  veins  a  lulling 

Fatalistic,  careless  sleep — 

You  are  drowning  out  the  sparkling, 

Gay,  brisk  steps  of  days  gone  by 

With  your  weary  syncopation — 

With  your  studied  hesitation — 

With  a  saxophonic  sigh ! 

So  we  dance  as  you  persuade  us — 
Blase  youth  glides  dully  by. 

Rosalind  Greene. 

[16] 


''Chaque  nuit  ]e  quitte  la  maison* 

Rain-dark  night  upon  the  hills — 
Lights  like  mist-blurred  moons,  below, 
Gleam  where  cities  lie;  but  I, 
High  upon  the  hills,  I  go. 

Rain-dark  night  upon  the  hills — 
Wind-sweeps  through  black,  slender  trees; 
Scent  of  leaves  and  wet  brown  earth; 
Sounds  as  of  far-off,  surging  seas. 

Rain-dark  night  upon  the  hills — 
Far  I  go,  aloof,  and  free 
As  rain,  and  wind,  and  earth,  and  sky, 
In  high,  exultant  ecstasy. 

Ruth  Walsworth  Bos  ley. 


[17] 


To  Sophie  Arnould 

(Suggested  by  Phillip  Moeller's  play,  Sophie) 

Your  frosted  glass  was  delicate 

Nor  ever  critic  dared  berate 

Its  artistry  of  charming  lines. 

He  who  makes  hoar  frost  fashioned  you 

Your  glass  from  diamond-dusted  dew, 

And  carved  upon  its  lovely  lines 

Mysteries  in  half-traced  signs. 

Your  frosted  glass  with  amber  wine 
Was  filled,  unto  the  topmost  line, 
And  then  was  guarded  jealously 
Till  Love  one  night  all  carelessly 
Upset  the  glass  and  spilled  the  wine — 
Love  who  could  be  so  palatine 
And  jest  with  God  so  fearlessly. 

Your  frosted  glass,  once  delicate, 
Must  now  in  splintered  fragments  wait 
The  sun,  where  never  sun  may  go. 
Your  frosted  glass  with  amber  wine 
Love  quaffed  and  splintered  drunkenly — 
Love  who  can  be  so  palatine 
And  laugh  at  God  so  carelessly. 

Erminie  B.  IV heeler. 


[18] 


Mist  and  Fire 

I  run  out  in  the  mist 
In  the  dusk. 

My  feet  are  swift  and  beautiful.  .  .  . 
The  mist  is  velv^et  under  my  feet. 
My  eyes  are  hot  stars  burning  through  the  mist. 
My  lips  are  red  old  wine,  wet  with  mist  kisses.  . 
I  am  beautiful — flame  in  the  mist. 
I  walk — remembering  you 
And  the  blue  fire  in  your  eyes.  .  .  . 
I  am  so  beautiful  in  the  mist! 
If  only  the  mist  that  wraps  me  were  your  arms ! 

Roberta  Holloway. 

Evanescence 

I  know  no  color 
Like  that  I  see 
In  the  sunrise. 

And  motion  is  nowhere 
Like  the  cloud-ships 
Slow-sailing. 

The  color  pales, 
The  cloud-ships  sink 
And  vanish. 

Nothing  that  is  can  stay, 
Nor  come  again 
Forever. 

Uanict  McLear  Hall. 

[19] 


Mastic 

Whatever  Is  it 
Keeps  the  heart  dancing 
When  days  are  heavy — 
What  but  the  magic : 
Magic  of  moonbeams, 
Stars  in  the  grasses, 
Gossamer  mist-wreaths, 
Light  wings  of  fairies, 
Flower-scents  in  twilight. 

Whatever  is  it 
Keeps  the  heart  dancing — 
Grey  years  and  heavy. 
Rose-leaves  are  falling. 
Far  voices  singing, 
Near  by  soft  laughter — 
What  but  the  magic: 
Your  name,  the  magic. 

Harriet  McLear  Hall. 


[20] 


Along  San  Gabriel  Way 

Along  San  Gabriel  Way 
The  flowers  bloomed  but  yesterday; 
And  every  creature  beneath  the  sun 
Found  life  a  course  of  mirth  and  fun, 
And  every  thought  was  light  and  gay, 

Before  love  came. 

Along  San  Gabriel  Way 
A  richer  foliage  grew  one  day. 
While  breezes  mild  and  moonlight  pale 
Mingled  with  love's  old  golden  tale, 
And  life  grew  sweeter  with  each  day, 

When  love  had  come. 

But  now  no  longer  does  the  sway 
Of  beauty  hold  San  Gabriel  Way. 
The  flowers  all  have  withered  brown, 
The  shrubs  have  all  been  trampled  down, 
And  in  my  heart  grey  sorrows  stay. 

Since  love  has  gone. 

Aubrey  Allan  Graves. 


[21] 


Love 

Love,  they  told  me,  was  a  happy  Lad, 
As  blithe  and  carefree  as  a  summer  bird, 
Whose  coming  would  transform  the  earth 
Into  a  melody  of  mirth, 
So  bright  he  is  and  glad. 

And  as  I  watched  for  love — one  day 
A  woman  came  upon  my  way, 
A  mother  with  a  sobbing  child. 
And  in  her  kindly  mother-eyes 
There  was  a  look  so  tender-mild, 
A  look  so  infinitely  wise. 

Then  graciously  she  smiled 

And  with  a  shy,  alluring  charm, 

She  gently  took  my  lonely  arm 

And  walked  with  me  upon  my  way. 

And  always  at  her  side  the  child 

Would  stay, 

And  weep  and  weep,  and  never  play. 

So  crept  the  hours  into  years, 
And  over  me  a  dull  dismay, 
And  to  my  spirit  gloomy  fears. 
For  never  once  the  Dancing  Lad 
Had  come  with  antics  fleet  and  gay. 
Had  come  to  make  life  wholly  glad. 
And  ever  day  by  day 
The  mother  with  the  crying  child 
Traveled  with  me  upon  my  way. 

[22] 


Thus  long  I  waited  for  the  Happy  Youth 

And  long  were  all  my  watchings  then  In  vain, 

But  now  at  last  unto  my  welling  heart 

There  breaks  the  gleaming  truth, 

For  Love  can  be  no  other 

Than  the  kind-eyed  Mother, 

And  her  Child  that  must  remain 

Through  all  the  days 

On  all  the  ways — 

Her  weeping  child  is  Pain. 

Ruth  Harwood. 


Changelings 

Perhaps  this  crusty  earth  we  tread  so  lightly 

Has  layers  tightly 

Pressed  from  the  musk  of  lily  petals  blown 

Before  years  had  flown 

To  mark  out  time  and  change  the  rose  to  stone. 

Perhaps  our  lives  of  segment-short  mortality — 

Unknown  reality — 

After  the  whisper  of  that  slowest  breath, 

Which  we  call  Death, 

Will  be  but  other  forms  of  life  in  death. 

And  with  dead  roses  we  will  find  new  worth 

As  they — in  earth. 

Roberta  Holloway. 

[23] 


Lament 

Only  the  dripping  rain 
Over  a  gloomy  sea — 
The  sorrowful  refrain 
My  heart  repeats  to  me. 

To  love — and  yet  to  know 
Naught  of  the  loved  one's  heart 
Ever  to  hunger  so, 
And  ever  held  apart. 

To  love — and  yet  to  feel 
Never  the  human  touch, 
Never  the  lips  to  heal 
The  heart  that  cries  so  much. 

Nothing  of  love  but  pain, 
Nothing  to  answer  me. 
Only  the  dreary  rain 
Over  a  sombre  sea. 

Ruth  Harwood. 

The  Pale  Lady 

.>« 

0  lady  pale,  why  gaze  so  sad 
From  out  your  castle  casement  high? 
The  happy  poppies  drink  the  gold 
Of  spring's  new  sky. 

My  lover  Knight  has  gone  afar; 

1  saw  his  shield  with  fleur-de-lis. 
As  off  he  slowly  rode,  flash  back 
His  love  to  me. 

[24] 


So  here  alone  I  wait  each  day 
With  prayers  that  soon,  soon  I  may  see 
Upon  this  field  his  burnished  shield 
And  fleur-de-lis. 

Ah,  lady  pale,  on  field  afar, 
Amid  the  fallen  blazonry, 
There  bloody  lies  a  dented  shield 
With  fleur-de-lis. 

Vernon  R.  King. 

Next  Door 

The  little  woman's  house  next  door 
Is  quiet  now ;  the  shades  are  drawn 
And  no  one  sings  there  any  more. 

She  used  to  dig  along  the  paths 
Between  the  garden  plots;  she  nursed 
Carnations  in  a  house  of  laths. 

The  yard  is  brown  these  days  with  weeds 
That  bend  and  fall  across  the  paths, 
And  In  the  plots  they  cast  their  seeds. 

Her  trowel  is  sticking  in  the  bed 
Of  hyacinth;  she  was  digging  there 
The  day  they  told  her  he  was  dead. 

The  widow's  little  house  next  door 

Is  quiet  now;  I  wonder  if 

She  will  ever  sing  there  any  more? 

Vernon  R.  King. 

[25] 


/  Fear  the  Waking  Moments 

I  fear  the  waking  moments 

That  follow  sleep. 
All  through  the  course  of  day 

Intensely  I  live ! 

Rigidly  I  keep 
My  every  thought 
Fastened  on  my  work  and  my  play. 

And  in  the  lonely  night-time 

I  am  able  still 
To  think  of  common  things, 

The  little  events 

And  trifles  that  fill 
The  crowded  hours 
Till  sleep  bears  me  off  on  its  wings. 

But  in  the  waking  moments 

I  am  not  so  strong : 
The  memory  of  you,  the  pain 

Of  losing  .  .  . 

Of  days  empty  and  long. 
Rush  mockingly  back 
Before  I  am  master  again  ! 

Aubrey  Allan  Graves. 


[26] 


A  Sailor  s  Ballad 

Suns — suns — over  my  head — 

Each  day  a  new  sun  rolls  over  my  head — 

Suns  with  gold  whiskers,  an'  suns  grey  an'  dead — 

Each  day  a  sun  rollin'  over  my  head. 

Once  come  a  sun  all  shinin'  an'  red, 

A  sun  full  o'  light  swingin'  over  my  head — 

Gold  sky  were  his  floor — silver  sea  were  his  bed — 

That  round,  flashin'  sun  swingin'  over  my  head. 

Oh,  that  were  the  day  me  and  Susan  were  wed. 

Once  come  a  sun  ridin'  pinions  o'  lead — 
A  sun  dark  as  death  rollin'  over  my  head. 
With   his   mouth   full   o'   thunder,    his  jaws   full   o' 

dread — 
A  storm-snortin'  sun  rollin'  over  my  head. 
Oh,  that  were  the  day  that  my  Susan  were  dead — 
With  the  lightnin'-lipped  sun  grinnin'  over  her  head. 

Roberta  Holloway. 


[27] 


Footprints 

Listen,  ocean,  listen. 

Do  you  remember 

When  she  and  T  walked  here  together 

Once  upon  these  sands? 

Do  you  remember 

How  the  clear  winds  blew  around  her, 

And  you  curved  up  hands 

About  her  feet  to  hold  her 

Like  an  impassioned  lover? 

Do  you  remember 

Where  we  rested 

Looking  back  upon  our  footprints, 

Heavy,  broad  footprints; 

Light,  narrow  footprints. 

Woven  together  on  the  sand? 

Do  you  remember 

When  she  said,  "I  wonder 

Whose  will  last  the  longer"? 

And  I  answered,  partly  jesting, 

"Yours  are  closer  to  the  water. 

Mine  will  last  the  longer"? 

Look  now,  ocean,  look. 
Far  behind  me — footprints; 
Broad  and  heavy  footprints  only, 
Half  completed  tracings 
Of  a  perfect  pattern. 


[28] 


Pressing  deeper, 
Pressing  slower; 
Now  I  wonder 
How  much  longer? 

Vernon  R.  King. 


Reality 

Together  did  we  walk  one  summer  day — 

A  very  little  while  ago  it  seems — 
In  vivid  gardens  loved  by  singing  birds, 

And  pleasant  sun-warmed  streams. 
We  spoke  the  trivial  thoughts  of  idle  youth, 

Nor  dreamed  at  all  that  we  should  ever  be  afraid. 
We  lightly  talked  of  death;  your  laughter  gave 

Quick  tribute  to  the  jest  I  made. 

Now  the  dark  silence  creeps  along  the  corridor 

To  the  stark-edged  whiteness  of  this  ethered  place, 
And  as  I  watch  alone  through  the  thin-drawn  hours. 

While  the  twitching  shadow  greys  your  sharpened 
face. 
And  your  great  hurt  makes  a  stifled  cry 

Of  every  gasping  breath  you  bring, 
I  can't  remember  what  we  said  that  day 

To  make  death  seem  a  little  thing. 

Marion  Yeatman. 


[29] 


Longing 
This  have  I  seen  before,  or  known  it,  sleeping — 

The  moss-fringed  pool,  brimming  with  quietness, 
Silvered  with  the  deep  silence  of  a  dream, 
Where  Autumn-burnished  trees  bent  lowly  down 
To  sip  delicately  at  their  own  fire-crowned  beauty. 

It  is  a  dream — a  dream  of  inarticulate  yearning; 

For  now,  when  an  unfettered  leaf 

Twirls  goldenly  through  the  still  dusk, 

And  rides,  a  fantastic  flame,  on  molten  shadow, 

I  can  only  stare. 

And  grope  dumbly  for  comprehension 

To  make  the  marvel  mine. 

If  some  miracle  could  free  me  of  sleep-numbness. 
Then  I,  like  a  tree,  might  lowly  kneel,  and  drink, 
Drink  greedily, 

Of  the  loveliness  of  silver-silent  pools. 
Fringed  with  quietness  and  filigreed  with  fire. 

Marion  Ye  at  man. 


[30] 


End 

I  have  seen  the  slowly  limping  fox 
Drag  himself  into  his  hole  to  die; 
And  leave  his  blood  smeared  on  the  grass  and  rocks. 

And  I  have  seen  the  wild  dove  flutter  to  a  copse 
To  die  in  some  cool  shade  it  loved  at  noon 
And  leave  behind  a  line  of  darkening  drops. 

This  morning  when  I  rose  the  air  was  cold, 

So  cold  it  stung  my  lungs;  the  old  wind  hummed 

In  my  dull  ear,  "You  too  are  old,  are  old." 

Today  the  yellow  sun  has  moved  and  laid 
Its  burning  fingers  on  my  brow  and  eyes 
And  burning  I  panted  in  the  too-cold  shade. 

Vernon  R.  King. 


[31] 


One  Passes  By,  Singing,  in  the  Night 

♦ 
Day  shall  not  know  me, 
Nor  night 
Nor  ever  sorrow 
Nor  delight. 

I  shall  go  as  winds  go, 
And  dying  fire; 
I  shall  go  as  mists  go. 
And  all  desire. 

Day  shall  not  know  me, 
Nor  night 
Nor  ever  sorrow 
Nor  delight. 

Ruth  fValsworth  Bosley. 


[32] 


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